


A Story About The Stars

by Schgain



Series: The Sandstorm: Part C [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale, ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: A little tongue-in-cheek, Character Study, Stream of Consciousness, post-n'doul fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 18:38:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5015782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schgain/pseuds/Schgain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He heard the radio crackle to life, and speak. And he was pleased, because he had always wanted to hear about himself on the radio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Story About The Stars

**Author's Note:**

> There's something appealing about taking these harsh characters and writing them as softly as possible. Moments of peace and requiem where they're not sure what to do or how to act. I had a lot of fun writing this.

A Story About Him

A desert, not unlike our own. A little more vast, a little more empty, civilization huddles near the River. 

Welcome... To [GARBLED SPEECH AND STATIC. CASSETTE SHOWS SIGNS OF PHYSICAL TAMPERING.]

[Excerpt from an unidentified musical segment.]

There's a man, on the radio. An American man, with an American accent. The man is talking about a different man, who is pleased; he had always wanted to hear about himself on the radio. 

Right now, he is the only one awake. This is nothing new- he doesn't sleep often, and something.... Something in his lungs and his heart keeps him thrumming and alive. 

You wouldn't consider him terribly odd if you saw him, really. He's tallish, with broad shoulders, and sun-kissed skin, and an eye color that's unusual for his nationality. He looks as alive as anyone else, if a little sleepless. It's why he's listening to the radio. He's drumming his fingers on his thigh, and glancing whenever he can at the car radio. 

He laughs, once, an amused breath of air through his nose. You know how it is. 

He lived somewhere vastly different than where he is now; with a home, and a mother, and a father who was, for the most part, absent. It didn't matter to him, really. Not anymore. Back home the stars were less evident, and he takes the moment's reminder to look heavensward. The moon, of course, is new. It's flighty like that. 

But goodness, isn't the Moon beautiful. 

There had been an urgency in his voice, once. Authoritative and smelling of cigarette smoke. 1974 kreteks, to be exact. The smoke clings to him. The others complsin, but he doesn't listen. 

He's flighty like that. 

He thinks of what he's going to do after this. After he wins. He turns to the radio and mumbles a phrase that may well be the only thing he says. If the man on the radio has faith in him, well...

You know. 

The purple-silver-white hands that are his, and not his, lay palm up and incorporeal. There's a quietness to the action that begets the silence of the spirit. 

He shoots a glare at the car radio, but he knows it will do nothing. His clothes are still damp from the fight with the blind man. Or maybe, he thinks in a way that he doesn't want the radio man to broadcast, he's imagining things. The hollowness in his stomach from the day's exchange had not fully receded. 

The desert is vast. Endless, even. No flowers bloom in these shifting sands. 

He misses the brine and the life of the ocean. 

He thinks of a job at sea. He'd sit on a boat, sometimes for days. Sometimes for months. He'd measure and direct and take notes. He'd step onto dry land eventually, he'd have to, and be paid the same amount of cash from the same person he didn't know each time. 

He knows he will win this battle, but to think of what lays ahead, far enough in the future where outlines are blurred and shimmer like a mirage, it's not something for a teenager to dwell on. 

But as he dwells on what lays ahead, I allow you, sweet listeners, to dwell on... The Weather. 

https://youtu.be/XUClIslXKZo

The man in the desert- the one not narrating on a radio program- frowns. It seems like he is always frowning these days. It's possible he thinks the radio is a Stand, or the Voice is one, broadcasting to the man he knows is his enemy, down to the very gene. It's possible he's anxious. Apprehensive. 

It's possible he is filled with very many emerald jewel beetles, writhing in unison along his nerves. 

But not likely. 

No, it's possible that he is just someone who didn't ask for any of this. Not the sea, not the desert, not even the stars, or his friends. Friends he didn't choose or want. 

It's possible that he's tired. And that he knows that the man on the radio is just that. A man on the radio. 

A man who bids his listeners goodnight, [GARBLED SPEECH.] Goodnight.


End file.
